My Sister Susan
by GeoffreyF
Summary: A series of three reflections by the three other Pevensies on their wayward sister.
1. Peter

_**Author's Note:**_ I think I'm addicted to writing Susan. I just can't help myself, because she just wants to be written about so much! I find that I like her more and more as I write more about her, because she's just so very complicated.

So this will be in three parts - one for each of Susan's siblings. They're nothing new, really, but I find writing about Susan to be enormously relaxing, and it's a way of combating writer's block with various other ideas. So if it's a bit messy, I'm sorry!

If you could take the time to review, I would love it! But if you can't, then I hope you enjoy it anyway.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing to do with the Pevensies or Narnia - that's C. S. Lewis.

* * *

My Sister Susan

**Peter**

My sister Susan was my eldest sibling, and I can't remember anything before she was born. She was always there, from my earliest memories, with her serious little face and her practical sensibilities. I always relied on her more than I could say.

Susan was always there for me – a dreadful cliché, but true all the same. Even when she was small she was ridiculously responsible. I broke my arm when I was six, falling out of a tree in our garden. Susan had been sitting on the grass, drawing butterflies and robins with brightly coloured crayons. She went white when I fell and whiter still when she heard the crack. But she didn't scream or cry or anything like that. That's not what Susan does.

She came over to me gravely.

"Does it hurt, Peter?" she asked.

I was incoherent by this time; I was determined not to cry, but I'm afraid I wasn't very successful.

"Don't move," she said, and I watched her run up to the house. I groaned, but I didn't move. When Susan told you to do something, it was usually a good idea to do it. Susan's suggestions were usually good.

She still wasn't crying when she led Mother out to see me, but I could see that she had been. Her face was red and streaked, but she still regarded me calmly. I felt very grateful to her then, for making that effort for me.

Mother was usually similarly serene, but she was rather less controlled that day. I am not saying that she was hysterical, or anything like that. She was just very tired and exhausted – Lucy had just been born, you see.

"I'll have to call an ambulance," she said, kissing me on the forehead. "You stay here with Susan until I get back."

Susan walked over and knelt beside me on the grass.

"I told you not to climb that branch," she observed. "It was always going to crack."

That was Susan – calm, unruffled, always very certain that she was right. Usually, it must be said, she was.

She was always calm in front of me. Edmund says that he saw her cry several times, but I never did – not once. Not even when … but I won't talk about that. I wonder if she didn't want to cry in front of her older brother. It's the sort of thing she might do, I suppose.

I remember coming home from school with Susan on her first day. I wanted to know all about it – who her teacher was, who she sat with, what she thought of the playground. She babbled agreeably for a bit, and then looked at me in a very strange way.

"You know, Peter, I think I'm going to like school."

I snorted. "You wait," I said. "It's only your first day. It doesn't take long to become tiresome."

"No, I suppose not," she said, in that serious way of hers.

But she was right – she did like school. She was never particularly good at schoolwork – I don't think her mind worked that way – but she revelled in the routine, and the social aspect. Once, many years later, her teacher told me that all the little girls used to take their problems straight to her. It doesn't surprise me.

We fought, of course. All siblings do, from what I've seen of the world. But our fights were never really serious. I would get annoyed at her for cleaning up my room without being asked, so I couldn't find anything – she always had that tiresome habit, even much later. I remember one day when I was about eleven, when she had carefully carried all my previous year's schoolwork outside and into the bin.

"I _wanted_ them!" I yelled at her.

"What for?" she asked, straightening the various things on my bedside table. "You were never going to look at them again. You told me so."

"But – but –" Susan's inescapable logic always caught me. "I might have, someday."

Susan gave me a long look.

"Don't do that," I snapped, slapping her hand away from my bedside table. "I can look after my own bedroom."

"You have to keep it tidy, Peter," she said severely. "Otherwise Edmund might swallow something."

"He's eight, Susan, not a baby!"

She glared at me and stalked off.

But these fights were rare once Edmund and Lucy started to grow up. Susan and I were that little bit older, and we had to present a united front a lot of the time. Edmund was a difficult child – Lucy, of course, was not – and we both shouldered responsibility with little complaint. I resented it sometimes, though – never to my siblings, I could never have done that to them, but sometimes, lying in bed at night, I would wish that I didn't have to look after my younger siblings.

I don't think Susan had any such doubts. She was the perfect little mother to them. I hardly ever heard her get cross with either of them, in fact.

In Narnia, Susan was always there when I needed her. Having her there – calm, gentle – always helped me more than I ever told her. I wish I had told her how much she meant to me, before – well, I wish I had.

As she got older, Susan changed – but so did we all. She began to worry more about her appearance, to begin with. Susan had always been concerned about looking neat and proper, but it went beyond that. She spent hours every day making sure that she looked perfect. I didn't worry too much. All girls grew up, I thought.

Edmund, I think, always saw a bit more of Susan than I did. I was so used to her being her steady, reliable self that perhaps I didn't look deeper when I should have. Edmund, at least, was not completely surprised when it happened.

I'm not going to talk about that, though. I still don't understand it at all.

I don't talk to my sister Susan anymore. Properly, I mean. We exchange niceties when we see each other, but I haven't spoken to Susan herself for quite some time.

And now – well, we might not come back from wherever we're going. I won't write much about the Narnian that the seven of us saw a few days ago. Edmund and I are going to get the rings. We don't know what will happen, but whatever it is, Susan doesn't want to be involved.

I suppose I hate her for it, really. I still can't believe that she would abandon us like that. My Susan would never have done it.

But there is a reason I've written all this, here in this little book that Lucy talked the three of us (she, Edmund and I) into buying. We never said that it was for Susan, but we all knew it.

I miss my sister Susan.

* * *

_**A/N2:**_ Well, what do you think? It's a bit rough, I know.

Interesting fact: Peter is extremely easy to write in first person. Who would've thought?


	2. Edmund

**A/N:** This took a little longer than I hoped for, but here it is. (I've been trying to upload it for the past few hours, periodically, but Document Manager was down. Grr ...

So yes. I'm a bit uncertain about bits of it - and a certain disappointing discovery in HHB necessitated a little adjustment - but let me know what you think.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing to do with Narnia.

* * *

**Edmund**

My sister Susan was always the one I went to when I wanted to cry, but I didn't want Peter and Lucy to see. She was the one that I opened my heart to, and she was the one who ultimately tested it further than I thought I could bear.

My earliest memories are of Susan teaching me to read. I must have been about four or five, which would mean that Susan was about six or seven. She had never been particularly good at school, but I think that she felt it her responsibility to see that her siblings were properly prepared, when the time came.

I was less than enthusiastic about her teachings, I remember. Often I would make faces at her when she wasn't looking, or deliberately read everything wrong. I picked up reading very quickly, and it wasn't long before I could rival my sister. But she was never jealous or resentful that her siblings were so much quicker at these things than she was. In fact, she was overjoyed, and it wasn't long before she was asking me to help with her homework.

Most of my early memories principally involve Susan, because Lucy was always the centre of attention in our family. She reacted very well to this – there's nothing spoilt about her – but it cannot be denied that Mother and Peter fussed over her a good deal. Susan too, of course, but Susan always found time to sit with me as well, and we played little games in our corner, while Peter and Mother took care of my younger sister.

I remember my first day of school. Peter and Susan were very excited – Peter was full of warnings about various teachers that I might end up with, and admonitions about who to make friends with and who to avoid. Susan stood there smiling, but when Peter had bounded ahead to catch up to some of his friends (after a tight hug and a surreptitious kiss on the forehead) Susan pulled my hand into her own.

"You'll be fine, Ed," she said to me. "You've already learnt a lot of what you need to. It will be fun."

I pulled my hand away quickly. I didn't want anyone to see me holding hands with my _sister_. But I gave her a little smile, all the same.

A few years later, I had entered what the others call my "difficult" period. I would deliberately flout Peter's authority as the oldest whenever I could, and I would make spiteful little jibes at Lucy, who would always look at me with wide, hurt eyes that would make me even angrier. But it was a while before I was openly nasty to Susan.

"Come on, Edmund," she said one night, soon after the big grandfather clock in the hall had chimed eight. "Time for bed."

"In a minute," I said, without looking at her.

I heard her walk over behind me. "Edmund, you'll just be tired in the morning."

"I said, in a minute!" I snapped.

Susan came and sat down beside me, looking at the drawing I was working on. I don't really remember what the drawing was – it wasn't important.

"You can finish it in the morning," she said, more firmly.

I turned and glared at her.

"Just because you're older than me, you think you can order me about," I said angrily. "You're always being so high-and-mighty, but you're not my mother and I won't do what you say. So there!" I stuck my tongue out at her. Childish, yes – but I was tired, and that always made me childish.

Susan frowned at me.

"Mother is busy with Lucy," she said, calmly but with a slightly hurt expression in her eyes. That gave me a guilty little twinge, but I was angry by now. Susan continued, "She asked me to see that you went to bed on time."

"You don't have to be such a goody-goody about it," I sneered.

Susan stood up. "Edmund, I'm disappointed in you," she said. "Don't you know the rhyme?

_Early to bed, early to rise_

_Makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise._"

I stared at her. Trust Susan to start quoting poetry. (It seemed like poetry to my nine-year-old mind.)

"Don't you want to be a man, Edmund?" she asked, a tiny smile playing on the corners of her lips. "I just thought that, what with you being almost ten, you'd want to behave like it. But if you'd rather make a fuss like a little boy …"

She had me, and she knew it. What could a chap say to that? I sighed and followed her, grumbling, to the bedroom I shared with Peter, where she tucked me in and kissed me on the forehead, as she always did.

I would go to Susan when I was upset – even during my "difficult" period – which, I admit, is essentially a nice way of referring to my "little pain" period. When I was angry with Peter (most of the time), or annoyed with Lucy, or irritated with one of my friends, I would creep into Susan's room, where she would be sitting, doing her homework. (Lucy and Peter were usually outside, playing a game of some sort.) Susan would look up and put her pencil down.

"Yes, Ed?" she would say, smiling at me.

I always felt better after talking to Susan. She didn't scold me in those little discussions, but she didn't condone my behaviour either. She would just listen, and nod, and smile, and then she would pull me into a hug at the end.

"It will be all right, Ed," she would say. "Just give it time to calm down, and you'll be fine."

I would hug her back half-heartedly, and then run to the door. I would turn the handle and almost be out into the hall, but I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck.

"Thank you, Susan," I would say, turning around.

"You're welcome, Ed," she would reply with a smile, and we would both go back to what we were doing.

I don't know how she managed to be chief confidante to both Lucy and I during those years. Peter was the leader of our little foursome, and we all looked up to him (this was one of the reasons that I came to hate him for a while – we all, including me, worshipped him so much). But it was Susan that we went to for advice when we were troubled, and comfort when we were upset.

Peter says that he has never seen Susan cry. Lucy says that she cried when Aslan seemed dead on the Stone Table, and that doesn't surprise me. I have seen her cry three times in my life.

The first was when we were both much younger. Susan came into the boys' room one day (Peter was out with a friend) and sat down beside me. Something told me that I should stop what I was doing and focus my attention on my sister.

"Oh, Ed," she said, threw her arms about my neck, sobbing.

I was taken aback. Susan _never_ lost control like this. I patted her on the back awkwardly.

She told me, haltingly, how she had been sent out of the room at school that day. She wouldn't tell me what it was for, but I suspect that it was for talking. Susan was distraught. Peter and I (Lucy wasn't at school yet, so I must have been in my first year) had both been sent out several times, and neither of us had minded particularly, but Susan was a different matter.

I comforted her as best I could – but I wasn't very good at it. Nevertheless, she seemed to feel better when she had told me. She gave me a watery smile, and I smiled back.

"I love you, Edmund," she said.

I kissed her on the cheek in reply.

The second time I saw Susan cry was in Narnia. Well, in Calormen, actually. We had gone down there on invitation from Rabadash, the son of the Tisroc, who was one of Susan's suitors. We had taken Prince Corin of Archenland with us – a little scamp if ever there was one – and we seemed to have lost him. Susan, for whom responsibility is very important, wept shamelessly, and it was probably this that led her to weep again when it seemed that her polite interest in Rabadash would lead to all our deaths. I had never seen such a display from her before, and she apologised to me afterwards.

"I must beg your forgiveness, brother," she said. "Such a display of weakness was unbecoming."

"Nay, royal sister," I replied, smiling at her. "Your display was eminently understandable. You had been shocked deeply."

She gave me a little frown, and told me, "It will not happen again, Edmund," and walked away, muttering to herself.

The third time I saw Susan cry was when she abandoned Narnia – abandoned us. I had been expecting it, for I had seen the signs, but Peter and Lucy were unprepared, and Susan managed to appear tear-free in front of them. But when I followed her, she broke down and wept.

I understood why she was doing it. It was hard for Susan to accept that which was not in front of her, tangible and undeniable. It was even harder for her to accept that she could never return to the place where she had been happiest. She immersed herself in another world, hoping to replicate what she had felt as Queen Susan. From what I have seen, she was not successful.

Peter and Lucy are angry with Susan, and understandably so. But I am not, for she has never been angry with me, not even when I was beastly to her. There are times when I despair for her, wondering if she will ever return to us. I wonder if there will be a time when, once again, I can sit by Susan and pour out my troubles to her, and receive a comforting smile and a kiss on the forehead in return. I confess that I worry constantly about her.

But I have hope, for very well do I know my sister Susan.


	3. Lucy

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing to do with Narnia, or the Pevensies.

* * *

**Lucy**

My sister Susan is, and has always been, my best friend.

I should hasten to add that in fact I have three best friends. No prizes for guessing who the other two are. Peter, of course, has always been our protector, and our leader. Edmund sees everything, and notices things when you haven't even noticed them yourself. But Susan was our confidant, our confessor, our shoulder to cry on. Quite frankly, I don't know how she managed it.

I remember sitting with Susan when I was very young, playing with dolls. Edmund would usually wrinkle his nose in disgust at this, but I'm fairly sure this was mainly for show, because he usually ended up joining in. (I bet he hasn't written that in his part.) Susan would always play the mother, while I would be the mischievous child, doing all the things I would never have dared to do in real life. Susan – who never really liked imagination, mainly because hers was so staid – would be exactly as she always was: kind, gentle, and grave.

My first day of school stands out clearly in my memory. Peter and Edmund had both overwhelmed me with great chunks of information – Peter wanted to assure me that if I ever got into trouble I was to come directly to him, and Edmund whispered in my ear to stay away from the group that sat under the biggest oak. Susan stayed back with me.

"I said this to Edmund, and now I'm saying it to you," she said. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about." She smiled at me. I grinned back, nervously. School is, after all, a daunting thing at first – a whole new world full of new people, new rules and new discipline.

"I'm serious, Lucy," she said, taking my hand. I gripped it tightly. "You can already read, which is more than could be said for most of your classmates, I'm sure. This year will be easy for you."

She was right, of course.

In Narnia, I became even closer to my sister. I think this was mainly because Peter and Edmund were so often away; I went with them sometimes, but usually I stayed at home to keep Susan company. Susan only came with us once. It didn't go well.

Susan was never a fighter. It wasn't because she was a coward, or because she was unskilled – it was because she genuinely hated the idea of hurting other people, however much they may have done to deserve it. On the few occasions when her archery was required for more than just show, she would remain tense and unhappy for days. I would catch her staring out to the east, her hands clasped in front of her.

"Susan, there was no other way," I would say, putting my hand on her shoulder.

She would turn back to me, her eyes glistening but still in control. "That doesn't make it right," she would say, and walk away.

Susan preferred to rule with her heart, and to rule others' hearts into the bargain. Looking back now, she managed public opinion during our reign brilliantly, and without anyone realising that that was what she was doing – Susan included, of course. She staged parades, she organised fairs, she donated prodigiously to charity. She used to go out each week to walk among the people. I would come with her, sometimes, but it always seemed so dull – Susan would chatter to them for hours. Somehow she knew all about each of them – I used to wonder if she used spies, but now I realise that they had told her all of these things themselves. I have little doubt that the three of us have Susan to thank for the fact that there was never even the hint of a rebellion during our reign.

I remember one time, when I had accompanied her on one of these tours. We came to the forge of a blacksmith that Susan knew well, but the doors were locked and bolted. I saw Susan's lips tighten as she dismounted. I followed her over to the door, where a large "Closed" notice was all the explanation offered. Susan knocked firmly but quietly.

When the blacksmith and his wife realised who it was at the door, of course they opened it. Susan asked, very politely, whether we might come in. The blacksmith, a dark-haired satyr with very red eyes, nodded.

"Is there anything wrong?" Susan asked carefully, her eyes sweeping the empty forge. "You appeared to be closed, and I was worried that …" She trailed off.

There was a long silence. The satyr looked at his wife, and eventually she spoke.

"We lost him this morning, Your Majesties," she said, her voice quavering. "We had tried so hard, but ... but …" Her husband put an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, Silena," said Susan, and I saw that she was genuinely distressed. "I am so, so sorry. He was a lovely baby."

The satyrs continued to cry softly.

"I am so sorry to have intruded," murmured Susan sadly, turning to leave. "You have my condolences –"

"And mine," I added.

"And our brothers'," Susan finished.

"Your Majesty," said Silena haltingly, looking up, "I beg a boon of you."

Susan turned and straightened. "Anything within my power, Silena."

"Will you … will you …" Silena glanced at her husband, who nodded encouragingly. "Will you bless our baby, Your Majesty?"

Susan smiled sorrowfully. "I will deliver Aslan's blessing to your child, Silena," she said.

As we rode back to Cair Paravel, I asked Susan how she had known that the blacksmith and his wife would need her today. She was silent for a long while before she answered me.

"I knew that their baby would not live, Lucy," she said to me. "It was ill – it had been since birth. There was no hope for it. So I did what I could."

This is only one time that I remember Susan's instinct concerning her people. We each meant something to the Narnians, I think. Susan was their comforter, just as she was to me and my brothers. I sometimes think she loved them too much.

We all noticed Susan withdraw after we came back. There was a brief period when she was happy, but with the lengthening months she became more and more morose. I worried about her, and I know that Peter and Edmund did too.

And then we went back to Narnia. I shall never forget Susan's adamant opposition, when I was trying to lead the others to Aslan. She spoke against me at every possibility, and for the first time I felt something between us. But she spoke to me later, and apologised, and Aslan forgave her, and all was right again.

But after the second return, when Susan knew that she would never go back to her beloved Narnia, her depression returned. I don't think Peter really saw it. He saw her grow vainer, to his eyes, and sillier, but he never saw anything beneath that. I watched her change, and worried, but I didn't guess its meaning.

I'm almost certain that Edmund did. There was always something between Susan and Ed, some extra understanding that Peter and I didn't share. I still remember that terrible day, when she denied Narnia, and Edmund didn't seem surprised at all. Peter and I wanted to follow, but we knew that if anyone could make her see, make her return, it was Edmund.

He couldn't. I wasn't really surprised. Peter was. Edmund came back inside, shook his head, and put his arms around the two of us. I don't know how long we stayed there, but it was a long, long time. We all knew that we had lost Susan.

I find it hard not to be angry with my sister. I do not see how such silly denial can make it any easier for her. She is cutting herself off from us, and I hate it. I really, really do.

I still can't believe that Susan is doing this – my Susan, my reliable, sensible sister. I don't understand. I want to know why.

So I talked Peter and Edmund into getting this little book, and recording our feelings about Susan. Edmund in particular had been worrying about what we were planning, after we saw the Narnian at the meeting a few weeks ago. I told him that we could leave this book somewhere where Susan would find it, and she would know what had happened from it.

But I think that Susan will come with us, in the end. I think that she would like nothing better. She will come with us, and be a Queen again.

So I wait. I wait for my sister Susan.

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm sorry for the wait, but I find Lucy the hardest to write. She came together eventually, though - hopefully. I'd be grateful for any feedback on how I did.**

**Some of the stuff towards the end is based on "We are the Night", and what I wrote in that, but I hope that it works fine on its own as well.**

**I am marking this as complete for the moment. There may possibly be an epilogue at some point in the future, but I make no promises!**

**And finally, an enormous thank you to all the lovely people who have reviewed. I am honoured each time someone takes the time to tell me what they think.  
**


	4. Epilogue: Susan

**EPILOGUE**

**Susan  
**

This is going to be a message that my siblings will never read. After I have written it I shall throw this book into the fire. That will be an end to it. I need never think of _it_ again. My siblings meant everything to me, and now _it_ has stolen them away.

Peter writes that he doesn't understand. Well, Peter, I don't understand you either. How could you have let childish fantasies lead to this? We were all old enough to move on, and I was the only one that could.

Peter … oh, Peter. Did I never cry in front of you? Well, I hope you know I'm crying now.

I saw you, all three of you. At the station. You and the Professor and Aunt Polly and Eustace and that Pole girl, and our parents. All of you. You left me.

You think you understand, Edmund? You're wrong! You're … you're … no, I can't lie to you, Ed. You understood all to well. I would look at you and you wouldn't be angry or confused, not like Peter and Lucy. You would just know.

And Lucy … my darling Lucy. My wonderful, beautiful, valiant little girl. Not so little any more … or you weren't.

There, I've said it. I will miss you all. All of you. For ever.

I will think of you every day. But I will never think of _it_. _It_ is what has left me here, alone, without anyone. They all think I'm in shock. They're wrong. I know exactly what has happened.

To all of you, goodbye.

I will never see you again.

* * *

**A/N: Everyone's reviews asking for an epilogue inspired me to go and see what came up. It's short, but I think it fits. Do you agree?**

**And don't worry! Susan's got a long way to go before she understands it all.**

**Once again, thank you all. I can safely say that the epilogue wouldn't have been written without your reviews!  
**


End file.
